Chapter 8 #2
"Tori." Pietro's voice carries a warning.
She waves him off. "I'm being friendly. Someone has to be, since you'll just glower at her all evening."
"I don't glower."
"You're glowering right now."
Nico appears in the doorway, sharp-featured and suspicious. His gaze catalogues everything.
"Miss Kelly." The greeting sounds like an accusation. "Interesting day at the office?"
"You could say that."
"Nico. Our guest was nearly killed today." Lorenzo says.
Nico's smile lacks warmth. "Just making conversation."
Ava enters last, a shadow in elegant black. Riccardo's widow moves like she's navigating a world made of glass, careful not to disturb anything. She offers me a gentle smile.
"Shall we sit?" Lorenzo pulls out a chair for me, positioning me between him and Pietro.
Giulia and her assistants begin bringing out food. Antipasti, fresh bread, wine. The scents wrap around me, garlic and basil and comfort.
"So, Nora." Vittoria leans forward, genuinely interested. "Where are you from? Your accent is hard to place."
"Here and there." I reach for my wine, buying time. "Military family. We moved a lot."
The lie comes easily, built on fragments of truth. We did move frequently, just not for military reasons. Connor's business required flexibility.
"But you spent time in Boston?" Nico presses.
"School. Briefly."
"Which school?"
"Nico, enough." Pietro's voice cuts through the interrogation. "She's here as my guest, not a suspect."
"Given recent security breaches, everyone's a suspect."
The table goes quiet. Even Giulia pauses in serving the pasta course.
"That's enough." Pietro's tone drops to something dangerous.
But Nico doesn't back down. "We've lost too much already to trust blindly."
"I said enough."
The brothers lock eyes across the table. Testosterone and grief create combustible chemistry in the confined space.
"Pablo would have agreed with me." Nico's words land like a bomb.
Pietro goes rigid. Every line of his body broadcasts violence barely contained.
"Don't." The word comes out lethal. "Don't you dare."
"Who's Pablo?" The question escapes before I can stop it. It’s not my place to ask but I’ve lost all sense tonight.
Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. Giulia's hands still on the serving spoon. Lorenzo closes his eyes. Vittoria touches her bracelet looking somewhere on the ceiling.
"My son." Giulia's voice breaks the paralysis. "He died thirteen years ago."
Pietro shoves back from the table, his chair scraping marble. He's gone before anyone can speak, his footsteps echoing through the house.
"I'm sorry." My throat burns around the words. "I didn't know—"
"How could you?" Giulia's hand settles on my shoulder. "Nico, that was cruel."
"Was it? We know nothing about her—"
"We know Pietro trusts her enough to bring her here." Lorenzo's diplomatic tone has sharp edges. "That should be enough."
I don’t blame him. I don’t even want to be here but man he needs some manners.
"Like he trusted—" Nico cuts himself off, but the damage is done.
Vittoria stands. "I'll go check on him."
"No." Giulia shakes her head. "Let him be. He'll come back when he's ready."
But dinner continues with Pablo's ghost now joining the others. Conversation stays carefully neutral. Lorenzo discussing restaurant business, Vittoria complaining about a coding problem, Ava silent in her grief. Nico watches me like a hawk studying prey.
I force down enough food to be polite, though everything tastes like sawdust. The moment Giulia begins clearing plates, I stand.
"Thank you for dinner. If you'll excuse me..."
Lorenzo rises as I do. "The library is down the hall, third door on the left. It's quiet there if you want to relax."
A dismissal disguised as kindness. I take it.
The library is exactly as promised. Quiet, dimly lit, floor-to-ceiling shelves that smell of leather and paper.
I run my fingers along spines, finding comfort in familiar titles. Italian classics mixed with modern business books, philosophy beside pulp fiction.
I pull out a worn copy of Dante's Inferno, the text familiar as breathing. My mother read it out loud when I was too young to understand.
The leather chair embraces me as I curl into it, tucking my feet beneath me. Outside, wind rattles windows, but here feels safe. Suspended. Dante's hell feels more orderly than my own. At least his demons have names.
Hours pass. The house settles into sleep sounds—distant footsteps, doors closing, pipes ticking. My eyes grow heavy, the book weighing down my hands.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Pietro stands in the doorway, backlit by hall light. He's lost the sweater, wearing only a white t-shirt that shows the lean muscle beneath.
"Too much to process."
He moves into the room, noting the book in my lap. "You read Dante?"
"A little."
He takes the chair across from mine, the coffee table between us. "Dante's a heavy choice for light reading."
"Sometimes heavy is what you need. Order in chaos."
His eyes sharpen, studying me. "That's a very specific analysis for someone who reads 'a little' Dante."
He’s trying to make me laugh?
I swear to God, he confuses me even more every single day that I spend being around him.
"I'm sorry about dinner." I shift the focus away from my fabrications. "About asking..."
"Pablo was my best friend. My brother in everything but blood." Pietro stares at the cold fireplace. "He died because of me."
I don’t speak. What am I supposed to say anyway?
"I was supposed to be there that night. At the warehouse. But Giuseppe demanded I attend some family dinner. So Pablo went alone."
The words spill out like blood from a wound too old to heal properly.
"Rivals hit the shipment. By the time I got there..." He spreads his hands, a gesture of helplessness that looks wrong on someone so controlled. "Giulia never blamed me. That almost makes it worse."
"Guilt doesn't need permission."
He looks at me then, really looks. "Voice of experience?"
"Something like that."
We sit in comfortable silence. Wind pushes against windows. The house breathes around us, old wood settling. This is the most peace I've felt since fleeing Boston. Dangerous peace, the kind that makes you drop your guard.
"Tell me something about you Nora." Pietro's voice stays soft, but command underlies it. "Just one thing."
I consider the request. One truth among so many lies.
"Someone I trusted tried to kill me." The words escape before I can reconsider. "Someone I thought loved me. He tried to end my life, and there was no one to save me."
Pietro goes still.
"What happened?"
"I saved myself." My fingers find my throat, tracing bruises. "Barely. And now I can't stop looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to finish what he started."
"Is that why you're in Chicago? Running?"
One nod. That's all I can manage.
Pietro stands, crosses to my chair in two strides.
He kneels.
Pietro Sartori is putting us at eye level.
"Look at me."
I meet his gaze. Those dark eyes hold violence and promise in equal measure.
"No one touches you while you're under my protection. Understand?"